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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 158.

May 12th, 1920.

CHARIVARIA.

We are pleased to note that the King’s yacht Britannia is about again after being laid up since August, 1914.

Smoking and chatting periods have been introduced in some Massachusetts factories. Extremists in this country complain that, while this system may be all right, there is just the danger that working periods might also be introduced.

We are pleased to report that the eclipse of the moon on May 3rd passed off without any serious hitch. This speaks well for the police arrangements.

“Audiences at the music-halls,” writes an actor to the Press, “are more difficult to move on Saturdays than on other days.” This is not our experience. On a Saturday we have often withdrawn without any pressure after the first turn or two.

Sir L. Worthington Evans, says a contemporary, has been asked to investigate the mutton glut. What is wanted, we understand, is more glutton and less mutt.

Mme. Landru, the wife of the Parisian “Bluebeard,” has been granted a divorce. We gather that there is something or other about her husband which made their tastes incompatible.

It appears that Mr. Jerry McVeagh is of the opinion that the Home Rule Bill is quite all right except where it applies to Ireland.

A visit to the Royal Academy this year again encourages us to believe that, though we may be a bad nation, we are not so bad as we are painted.

According to a morning paper a commercial traveller who became violently ill in the Strand was found to have a small feather stuck in the lower part of the throat. If people will eat fresh eggs in restaurants they must be prepared to put up with the consequences.

The report that no inconvenience was experienced by any of the passengers in the South London train which collided with a stationary goods-engine now turns out to be incorrect. It transpires that a flapper complains that she dropped two stitches in her jumper as a result of the shock.

A water-spaniel was responsible last week for the overturning of a motor-car driven by a Superintendent of the Police near Norton Village in Hertfordshire. We understand that the dog has had his licence endorsed for reckless walking.

According to a Manchester paper a new tram, while being tested, jumped the lines and collided with a lamp-post. It is hoped that, when it grows more accustomed to street noises, it will get over this tendency to nervous excitement.

A serious set-back to journalism is reported from South Africa. It appears that the Army aviator who flew from England to his home at Johannesburg, after an absence of four and a half years, deliberately arranged to see his parents before being interviewed by reporters.

In a London Police Court the other day a defendant stated that he was so ashamed of his crime that he purchased a revolver with the intention of shooting himself. On second thoughts he let himself off with a caution.

Apparently the clothing of the Royal Air Force is not yet complete. Large headings announcing an R.A.F. Divorce Suit appeared in several papers recently, although its design and colouring were not mentioned.

Builders have been notified that the prices of wall-paper are to be raised forty to fifty per cent. In view of the vital part played by the wall-paper in the construction of the modern house, the announcement has caused widespread consternation among building contractors.

An American contemporary inquires why Germany cannot settle down. A greater difficulty appears to be her inability to settle up.

A shop at Twickenham bears the notice, “Shaving while you wait.” This obviates the inconvenience of leaving one’s chin at the barber’s overnight.

“Life and property,” writes a correspondent, “are as safe in Hungary to-day as they are in England.” It should be borne in mind that there is usually a motive underlying these alarmist reports.

“It is ten days,” writes a naturalist, “since I heard the unmistakable ‘Cuck, cuck, cuck’ of the newly-arrived cuckoo at Hampstead.” Not to be confused with the “Cook, cook, cook!” of the newly-married housewife at Tooting.

A weekly paper has an article entitled “The Lost Haggis.” We always have our initials put on a haggis with marking ink before despatching it to be tailor-pressed.

At the annual meeting of the National Federation of Fish-fryers the President asked whether it was not possible to make fried fish shops more attractive. It appears that no serious attempt has yet been made to discover a fish that gives off an aroma of violets when fried.

The Directors of the Underground offer a prize of twenty pounds to their most polite employee. We have always felt that the conductor who pushes you off a crowded train might at least raise his hat to you as he moves out of the station.

After considering the Budget very carefully some people are veering round to the theory that we didn’t win the War, but just bought it.

“What’s ’is business?”

“’E’s a taxidermist.”

“Oh, is ’e? Well, ’e seems to ’ave done better out of it than I ’ave.”

The Scarecrow Profession.

“Wanted, Youth of sixteen for one of the healthiest jobs in the world, most of the time spent basking in the sun, listening to skylarks and throstles; wages 35s. guaranteed to smart youth. Lots of weaklings have been set on their feet and prepared to face the world at this situation.”—Provincial Paper.

TO A BRICKLAYER IN REPOSE.

Rest from your work, awhile, my son,

And let a mug of beer replace

The moisture—sign of duty done—

That oozes from your honest face;

Your tale of bricks,

A long hour’s task, already totals 6.

Our goose that lays the bars of gold

Must not incur too big a strain;

Nor need you, as I think, be told

To keep a check on hand and brain,

Lest you exceed

Your Union’s limit in respect of speed.

For homes a homeless people cries,

But you’ve a principle at stake;

Though fellow-workers, lodged in styes,

Appeal to you for Labour’s sake

To fill their lack,

Shall true bricklayers waive their Right to Slack?

Never! You’ll lay what bricks you choose,

And let the others waste their breath,

These myriads, ranged in weary queues,

Who desperately quote Macbeth:—

“Lay on, Macduff,

And damned be he that first cries ‘Hold, enough’!”

Your high profession stands apart;

By years of toil you’ve learned the trick

(Like Pheidias with his plastic art)

Of slapping mortar on a brick;

Touched too the summit

Of science with your lore of line and plummet.

And none may join your sacred Guild,

Save only graduates (so to speak),

Experts with hod and trowel, skilled

In the finesse of pure technique:

And that is why

No rude untutored soldier need apply.

O.S.

KING’S REGULATIONS, PARA. 1696.

I have been in the Army for over five years; I have wallowed in Flanders mud; I have killed thousands of Huns with my own hand; I have seen my friends resume the habiliment of gentlemen and retire to a life of luxury and ease; and yet I am still in the Army.

I am informed that I am indispensable and that, although I shall be allowed to go in due course, the fate of the nation depends on my sticking to my job for a short time more. It would be against the best interests of discipline for me to tell you what my job is.

Last week I yearned for a civilian life and decided that not only would I leave the Army but immediately and in good style.

I laid my plans accordingly and proceeded to Mr. Nathan’s. There for the expenditure of a few shillings I purchased the necessary material for my guile.

I retired to my office, that is the desk that I sit at in a room with two other officers, and I armed myself with a file which would act as a passport to the Assistant of a Great Man, who in turn is Assistant to a Very Great Man. They all reside at the War Office. I went there and was conducted to the Assistant of the Great Man. Everything was proceeding according to plan.

I found him, after the manner of Assistants, working hard. He did not look up, so I laid my file before him. It was entitled “Demobilization, letters concerning,” and this was followed by a long number divided up by several strokes. Within the file were some letters that had nothing to do with my plan and still less to do with demobilization, but I hoped that the Assistant of the Great Man might not delve too deeply into their mysteries.

My hope was justified. “A personal application?” he asked as he glanced at the reference number.

“Undoubtedly, Sir,” I replied, and something in the soldierly timbre of my voice arrested his attention.

Carefully replacing his teacup in its saucer he raised his eyes towards me. As he did so he started as though he had received a shock; a look of perturbation came over his features; his cheeks assumed an ashy tint and for a moment my fate trembled in the balance. But gradually I could see his years of training were reasserting themselves; the moral support of the O.B.E. on his breast was restoring his courage; he muttered to himself, and I caught the words “Superior Authority.”

Still muttering he rose and retired into the next room. Everything was proceeding according to plan.

In less than a minute he reappeared and beckoned me to follow him. I then knew that I should soon be in the presence of the Great Man himself.

I stood in front of an oak desk and noticed the keen but suppressed energy of the wall-paper, the tense atmosphere of war vibrating through the room, the solid strength of England incarnate behind the oak desk.

The Great Man spoke. His opening words showed that his interest was centred rather in me personally than in the file that lay before him. He spoke again, rose from his seat and disappeared. And as he went I caught the words, “Superior Authority.” In less than a minute he returned and beckoned me to follow him. I then knew that I should soon be in the presence of the Very Great Man himself. Everything was proceeding according to plan.

I stood in front of a mahogany desk and noticed the keener but more suppressed energy of the wall-paper, the tenser atmosphere of war vibrating through the room, the solid strength of the Empire incarnate behind the mahogany desk.

The Very Great Man spoke. His opening remarks showed that his interest was centred in me personally. He spoke again, and these are his exact words: “Mr. Jones,” he said, “I perceive that you are a student of King’s Regulations, and that you conform your actions to those estimable rules. You will be demobilised forthwith, and in view of your gallant service I have pleasure in awarding you a bonus of two hundred pounds in addition to your gratuity; but please understand that this exceptional remuneration is given on the condition that you are out of uniform within two hours.”

With my feet turned out at an angle of about forty-five degrees, my knees straight, my body erect and carried evenly over the thighs, I saluted, about turned and marched to the door. Everything had proceeded according to plan.

As I reached the door the Very Great Man spoke to the Great Man. “You will draft an Army Order at once,” he said, “in these words: King’s Regulations. Amendment. Para. 1696 will be amended, and the following words deleted:—‘Whiskers, if worn, will be of moderate length.’”

I am still in the Army. The truth of the matter is that what I have described did not really happen. My nerve failed me at the door of Mr. Nathan’s. But I believe that whiskers, detachable, red, can be obtained from Mr. Nathan for a few shillings.

Motto for the Anti-British Écho de Paris: “Ludum insolentem ludere Pertinax.”

EXPERT OPINION.

First Bricklayer (pausing so as not to exceed his Union’s speed limit). “BOUGHT ANY OF THESE ’OUSING BONDS, MATE?”

Second Bricklayer (ditto). “NOT ME; THEY’LL NEVER GET NO ’OUSES BUILT, NOT IF THINGS GO ON THE WAY THEY’RE GOING.”

DENMARK TO HAVE A MANDATE FOR IRELAND.

Sensation in Political Circles.

Dashing round to Downing Street on our motor-scooter we were just in time to catch Sir Philip Kerr by one of his coat-tails as he was disappearing into the door of No. 10 and to ask him whether the strange rumour as to the Prime Minister’s latest project was true.

“Perfectly,” replied the genial Secretary, gently disengaging us. “Mr. Lloyd George has been greatly struck by Mr. Jack Jones’s comparison of Lord Robert Cecil to Oliver Cromwell, and has been studying the whole Irish Question anew from an historical standpoint. He has decided that the mandate for Ireland ought never to have been undertaken for the Papal See by Henry II. Strongbow——”

“Let’s see, wasn’t he a Marathon runner?” we asked.

“You are thinking of Longboat,” he replied. “The Earl of Pembroke was invited to enter Ireland by Desmond MacMorogh, and between you and me and the lamp-post Desmond was a bad hat. Look at the way he stole Devorghal, the wife of Tigheiranach O’Rourke.”

“Quite, quite,” we replied. As a matter of fact, if he had mentioned “The Silent Wife” we should have felt a bit more at home with the situation.

“Now take the Danes,” said Sir Philip. “Do you ever hear an Irishman complain of the injustice done to Ireland by the Danes? After that little scrap at Clontarf they accepted the Danish invasion quite naturally. Anyhow, the Danes got there first, and the Prime Minister’s view is ‘first come first served.’”

“But will Denmark undertake the mandate?” we asked doubtfully.

“Why not? They have Iceland already, and there is only one letter different.”

Scooting thoughtfully away, we went to visit Mr. T. P. O’Connor, feeling sure he would have some light to throw on the situation. We found him overjoyed with the proposal.

“Ireland and Denmark are simply made for each other,” he pointed out; “both are butter-producing countries and, welded together, they will form one homogeneous and indissoluble pat. Peace will reign in Ireland from marge to marge.”

Mr. Devlin was less optimistic. The rule of Dublin Castle under Olaf Trygvesson was, he declared, not a whit better than the rule of Dublin Castle to-day. It was true that Turges the Dane was King of All Ireland in 815, but it was not until that chieftain had been very rightly and carefully killed by Melachlin that the Golden Age of Ireland began. He was doubtful whether Mr. Edmund de Valera would consent to be a toparch under Danish suzerainty. As for himself, he held by the Home Rule Bill of 1914 or, failing that, Brian Boru.

When we asked Sir Edward Carson how he viewed the prospect of becoming a Scandinavian jarl, he adopted a morose expression reminding us not a little of the “moody Dane.”

“If the Prime Minister’s proposal becomes law,” he said firmly, “I shall have no alternative but to hand over Ulster to Holland.”

We scooted slowly back to the office, forced to the conclusion that the Irish Question is not settled even yet.

GENIUS AT PLAY.

Shall I ever see again

In the human head a brain

Like the article that fills

That interior of Bill’s?

Never a day can pass but he

Makes some great discovery;

His inventions are so many

That you cannot think of any

Realm of science, wit or skill

That is not enriched by Bill.

To relieve the awful strain

Of possessing such a brain

William always used to play

Eighteen holes each Saturday.

But he scarce could see at all,

And he often lost his ball,

Plus his temper and his pelf,

So he made a ball himself,

Which, if it should chance to roam

Out of sight, played “Home, Sweet Home”

On a small euphonium he

Had inserted in its tummy.

Next he wrought with cunning hand

Round its waist an endless band,

An ingenious affair

Such as tanks delight to wear;

And, inside, a little motor

Started every time you smote or

Even when you topped your shot;

And, once started, it would not

Stop, for if it came within

Half a furlong of the pin,

Then it was designed to roll

Straight and true towards the hole.

This is scarcely strange, because

It was bound by Nature’s laws,

And a magnet was the force

(Hidden ’neath its skin, of course)

Which, thought he, would make it feel

Drawn towards a pin of steel.

When he practised first with it

William almost had a fit,

For the ball with sudden whim

Started madly chasing him!

“That’s a game that I’ll soon settle,”

William said; “my clubs are metal;

Spoons and other clubs of wood

Will be every bit as good.”

Then he found to his dismay

Every time he tried to play

That the ball with sundry hoots

Chased the hob-nails in his boots.

Finally he had to use

On his feet a pair of shoes

Of a most peculiar shape

Made of insulating tape.

So the final test arrives

When once more he tees and drives.

Joy! As soon as he has hit he

Sees it toddling down the pretty,

Never swerving left or right

Till it waddles out of sight,

Plodding through a bunker and

Braying like a German band.

Reader, possibly you’ll guess

That the ball was a success.

’Twas in fact a super-sphere,

But—I shed a scalding tear

On these verses as I write ’em—

He forgot just one small item

Which (as small things often will)

Simply put the lid on Bill:

For the hole proved far too small

To accommodate his ball.

Best Man. “’Ow much?”

Parson. “Well, the law allows me seven-and-sixpence.”

Best Man. “Then ’ere’s ’arf-a-crahn. That makes it up to ’arf-a-quid.”

“Wanted Situation by respectable middle-aged Girl; working housekeeper, can cook, bake; would not object to milk one cow (Protestant).”—Ulster Paper.

As distinct from a Papal Bull.

Singular Coincidence.

“Having successfully towed the disabled American steamer Tashmoo 1,200 miles, the Fort Stephens, a Cunard steamer, arrived at Queenstown on Saturday.”—Daily Paper.

“Having successfully towed the disabled American steamer Tashmos, with which she fell in last Monday, 200 miles, the Fort Stephen, a Cunard steamer, arrived at Queenstown on Saturday.”—Same paper, same day.

“The King has notified his intention to command the attendance of Lieutenants of Counties and the Lord Mayors and the Lost Provosts of Great Britain, at Buckingham Palace on the 15th instant.”—Glasgow Paper.

Mr. Punch hopes that this additional publicity will lead to the recovery of the missing magistrates.

THE AUTHOR-MANAGERS.

Literature is becoming so commercialised that it is to be expected that before long popular authors, who already surreptitiously practise the tradesman’s art, will go a step further and write their own advertisements. No longer will they be content to get themselves interviewed on the subject of their next book, their new car and their favourite poodle, or to depend on the oleaginous eulogies of the publishers.

For instance:

Mr. DOUGLAS DORMY

begs to announce that he is

NOW SHOWING

his new Novel,

THE HIDDEN HAND OF HATE,

and confidently recommends it to

his Customers.

It contains no fewer than 92,563 of the

BEST WORDS

in the English Language

and is guaranteed

free from Split Infinitives.

Or again:—

Are you one of the

mentally alert men, the wistful women,

who have filled up an application form

to-day for

PATTERNS OF CHAPTER ONE

of

SEPTIMUS POSHER’S

New great romance of love and mystery

THE SICKENING THUD?

If you have not already done so, lose no time, but write asking for sample of

OPENING CHAPTER

(where the pink-eyed woman prevents the marriage of Ethel and Ludovic);

of

CHAPTER NINETY,

with its nine superb-quality murders;

or

CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED

(the last), where Ethel and Ludovic at last set out through the

FAIRYLAND OF LIFE.

You incur no risk in asking for these exquisite samples.

Write direct to Septimus Posher.

Or yet again:—

Mr. BOREAS BINKS

has pleasure in announcing that his new volumes of

RECOLLECTIONS

is now showing at all Libraries. He can confidently claim that this work, entitled

PEOPLE I HAVE MET AND

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEM,

is absolutely the most refined volume of Scandal on the market. All the reminiscences are novel and tasty.

Or once more:—

KEATS WILLIAMS,

Poet and Critic.

Poems of every description completed

at the shortest notice.

Ask to see our choice spring lines.

Specimens Free.

Epics within Two Days.

Odes within a few Hours.